


The Least Wonderful Day of the Year

by Aristocratic_Otter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Ebb's a Saint, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Porn with Feelings, Shitty Shopping Experiences, non-magic au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28305102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocratic_Otter/pseuds/Aristocratic_Otter
Summary: Simon has just started his new job as a check-out boy on Black Friday, the worse shopping day of the year.  He's had a horrendous night, but before he can head home and rest, he just has to get through one more customer...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83
Collections: Secret Snowflake 2020





	The Least Wonderful Day of the Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pipsqueakparker (lafbaeyette)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafbaeyette/gifts).



> I have to admit, it was a little bit intimidating getting Seb as my secret snowflake exchangee. Seb's written some of the most fantastic holiday stories (and some of the hottest smut!) in this fandom, and this will be my first holiday story and first complete smut in this fandom. Thank you to @otherworldsivelivedin for making sure my Simon and Baz don't sound too American (seriously, thank you!), and thank you to @peachpit_gabe for checking the smut to see that it flows and isn't ridiculous! 
> 
> Seb fortunately gave me plenty of leeway with lots of prompt ideas, and I, of course, decided to tackle most of them (RIP me). So, Seb, 18,000 words later, here is your domestic fluff that starts with a meet-ugly, has cozy/wintery/holiday vibes, mentions (briefly) a double date with Shep and Penny, and has several thousand words of fucking, lol. And a happy ending, of course :)
> 
> 12/27/20: Updated after I found out I'd spelled colour the American way throughout the fic 😂

**Begin:**

**Baz**

I swear to fucking god, this has been the most miserable night of my life to date. This is the fifth shop I’ve been to, searching for this damnable “Goth Barbie,” some hot toy that Mordelia learned about on YouTube. Of course, she insisted this was the ONLY thing she wanted from me, and also, of course, it’s some bedamned in-store exclusive. Exclusive to, it seems, the shittiest shop in town. Which I did not find out about until 20 minutes ago, when an excited shopper at Asda (my fourth shop of the night) waved a cheesy paper flyer in my face.

Why on Earth couldn’t she have chosen some quality toy from Harrods, or even Smyths? (Though that was a blasted madhouse too). This shop is an example of the worst of American sleaze. From the buzzing fluorescent lights whose excessively white glare is making my eyes water, to the shelves crammed full of ‘bargain’ products that will likely fall apart after one use, to the tiny, narrow aisles, choked with islands of Jammie Dodgers and Salt and Vinegar flavored Walkers Crisps (all the better to trip you with), this shop was clearly designed to drive me mad.

Now that I’ve secured the blasted doll (they were ‘sold out’, but a fiver convinced a shifty eyed employee that they ‘might’ve seen just one more in the back’), I’ve only the obstacle of the lines and tills left to get through. And, of course, I seem to have chosen the slowest line in the history of substandard shopping centres. The ancient crone in front of me just spent ten minutes finding and unfolding an extensive coupon collection and matching them with her purchases, and now she’s counting out what she owes from a plastic zipper bag that seems to be nothing but pennies and five pence coins.

I look longingly at the other till queues (they seem to be moving with such unnatural briskness that I’m certain they’re mocking me) and sigh. I’m the next customer in this line, while I’d have to move back to twentieth in line if I gave up my place here. And who's to say those speedy lines don’t have a secret coupon and coin bag bearer, lying in wait? Better the evil that you know…

At least the cashier running this line gives me something pleasant to look at while I cool my heels. (He _may_ have been the reason I chose this line in the first place, but I’ll never admit that if I’m asked). He’s absolutely gorgeous, even in the hideous uniform this place stuffs their employees into. He’s wearing a white polo, Navy trousers of some course, low-grade material, topped off with a blindingly orange vest, of the same cheap fabric as his bottoms. The store’s logo, a smiling cartoon raindrop, is screen printed on the back of the vest. (And what does the raindrop represent about this place? Cleanliness? If so, it’s a bold-faced lie).

He should look like a numpty, but somehow, he looks like an angel; one of those cherubs from Valentine’s day cards. He’s all pink cheeks and golden curls. I’ve been admiring his sturdy, well-built figure, and, as I’ve gotten closer, I’ve noticed that his eyes are incredibly blue, and his face and forearms are liberally dusted with freckles and moles. There’s one mole in particular, directly under his right ear, that is doing things to me.

At least this night hasn’t been a complete waste of time.

**Simon**

I swear to fucking god, if another “neighbour” asks me about that fucking Goth Barbie promotion, I won’t be held responsible for my actions. All-Sorts, the superstore I’ve taken temp work with for the holidays, insists that we call our customers “neighbours”. It’s stupid. I suspect they want their customers to view them as a quaint local shop, not the soulless billion dollar corporation that they are. It’s all bollocks. 

Today’s my first day, and I don’t know if I’m going to survive it. It’s Black Friday, the start of the holiday season, and nobody is happy, least of all me. I’ve been on my feet since 4pm yesterday (fucking capitalism; since when does Friday start on Thursday?), and it’s now 4 in the fucking morning and I’ve not seen a single smile in 12 hours. Just crabby frowns and harried grimaces. 

I should be at home, recovering in bed now, but two of the other new holiday-help employees quit in hysterics hours ago, and Rhys, the cashier supervisor, begged me to work another half-shift. _Why the fuck did I say yes?_

Already today, I’ve been run over, had to break up two fights and been yelled at 27 times. 

I think I’ll have nightmares of the shop’s opening for the rest of my life; the size of the crowd, their faces looking squashed and inhuman pressed against the glass. I swear I saw the glass doors bulging inward at one point. I used to think those zombie movies were a load of crap, but now that I’ve seen it happen in real life, I’m a true believer.

And then, the surge of humanity when the trembling store manager released the door locks! I was knocked off my feet and run over by at least three frenzied shoppers with their trollies before another “advocate” pulled me out of the scrum. (All-Sorts calls their employees ‘advocates’ because we’re supposed to “advocate” for the shoppers. Or for the products.) _(Who fucking cares?)_

It’s all because All-Sorts is an American chain trying to steal Asda’s customer base here in London. That’s why they’ve marked their prices down to the floor, and why I’ve had the worst night of my life (so far; I suppose my life could get worse) (Fuck me).

Not two hours ago, Rhys and I had to pull apart two wankers who were trading blows over which brand of biscuitswould be best to serve at their rugby club’s holiday party. Then, on my fucking 15 minute break, I had to get between two women scratching and pulling hair over 2000 thread count sheets (the quality is shit, that’s why we can sell them for 30 pounds a set). I think I’ve got a bald patch on the back of my head from where one of them got her claws into me.

And, the icing on this fan-fucking-tastic cake, is the ‘Holiday Goth Barbie’. Somehow, All-Sorts got the rights to sell THE hot doll of the year as an in-store exclusive—and then some moron ad exec bollocksed it all up by putting the price point as 2 quid, not 20. Somehow, not a one of the geniuses that put out our ad copy noticed until it was in the mailboxes of millions of Londoners. And every fucking one of them has demanded that I honor that insane price. The store would go broke, losing 90% on every doll we sell! And guess who gets to break the news that all of these lovely ‘neighbours’ aren’t getting a windfall today? Not the bloody ad execs!

I’ve just got to get through the rest of this line and I can clock out. I’ve only got the old lady with the loaded trolley and some posh tosser behind her to get through. Rhys has pulled the chain to close my lane after the dark haired bloke, so I know freedom is nearly within my grasp. And—of course!—old lady is a coupon queen, apparently. She’s fishing coupons cut from the ad out of her purse, one...at...a...time. Wonderful. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the posh arsehole (that’s his name now, I’ve decided) rolling his eyes and checking some fancy silver wristwatch. Whatever, Arsehole. Like you’ve got somewhere better to be? It’s four fucking a.m. I doubt you’re late to the opera, or whatever spoiled rich brats do with their time. So what if he’s well fit? Shiny hair and deep, soulful eyes don’t make a fella worthwhile. And now, the old biddy in front of me is counting out her payment...in small coins. Fuck my life. 

I can feel my frustration bubbling up under my skin. I’ve got to get out of here, or I’m going to go off...and wouldn’t that be a spectacular end to my retail career? I focus hard on steadying my breathing as I ring in all of the old lady’s coupons, and count every last bloody penny. I send her off with a fake smile, while making a rude hand gesture at her back (hidden under my counter) as she toddles off, and then I turn to face my final customer of the day. He’s got a foul smirk on his handsome face, and on the conveyor belt, he’s placed...one more gods-be-damned Goth Barbie.

**Baz**

While I’ve been lost in dreamy admiration of the cashier, the human tortoise in front of me has finally collected her receipt and is tottering off at a pace that would leave Aesop red with embarrassment (slow and steady wins the race, my arse!) and I see the promised land: the open spot in front of the till. I can finally be done with this wretched night.

As I take my well-earned spot in front of the check-out boy, I note that his name tag reads, ‘Simon Snow’. I snort; fitting that I’d just been imagining myself as part of a fable—that’s a fairy tale name if I ever heard one. I realise suddenly that my reaction to his name was all too apparent. I look up swiftly, to find the object of my amusement glaring at me, with a crimson flush rising up his neck to his face. I realise with some remorse, that he is clearly aware that my reaction was to his name, but I’m not sorry enough to humble myself and apologise. And, I can’t help but notice how attractive he is with rage sparkling in his blue eyes.

Resolving to pay for the toy and have no more association with pretty boys who work for soulless corporations, I pull out my Mastercard Black, and wait for him to ring me up without a word. He runs the doll’s box over the barcode scanner and shoves it roughly into a paper sack (Environmentally friendly! I’m sure the store must think this is a vital selling point). He takes my card, but before he can slide it through the till’s scanner, I note the price on the screen. It’s wrong. I clearly remember the insanely low price on the ad I’d had waved in my face at Asda. I reckoned that it must be what they call a “loss leader”. A price to get you in the store, in hopes that you’ll stock up on their other overpriced rubbish while you’re there. More fool them; I intend to never buy any other product from this rubbish bin of a shop ever again.

“Excuse me!” I call out. When he doesn’t react, and in fact keeps pushing my card into the scanner to overcharge me by 1000 percent, I grow frustrated and use his name. “Snow! You’ve got the wrong price!”. He stills. I’ve got his attention now, it seems, but I’m not sure I want it after all. He’s gone rigid, like every muscle in his body is locked in a death-rictus, and if I thought he was flushed before, now every inch of his skin is mahogany with rage.

“That’s it! I’m done! Check yourself out, you fucking twat! I QUIT!” His voice rises to a scream at the last word, as he shrugs out of his orange vest and hurls it at me, before running out of the shop at top speed, careening around frazzled shoppers and their trollies laden with cut-rate merchandise. I stare after him, jaw hanging open, dumbfounded.

**Simon**

It’s been a week since I blew off my temp job, and at this point, the only thing I’m feeling about the whole situation is embarrassment. Penny sympathised, after laughing her arse off at the profanity-laden rant I treated her to when I got home. It makes no difference to her whether I kept the retail job or not; my regular job pays enough to cover my rent and uni. 

I realised, after I ran all the way home, that I’d left my bike, wallet and keys stored in the All-Sorts employee locker room. (I don’t work there now, I don’t have to call them ‘advocates’ anymore, all right?). It felt almost exactly like a walk of shame, returning there the following night to pick up my stuff and a payslip for 12 hours of work. (Except I hadn’t got the fun of alcohol and sex the night before.)

Now I’m using a damp rag to wipe counters at my usual job, night manager at Ebb’s cafe, the Grey Goat. It’s just Agatha and me working this evening, and we haven’t seen a customer for hours. 

You’d think it would be awkward, working with my ex, but Agatha and I didn’t have a rough break-up...we just kind of drifted apart. One day I realised that we hadn’t gone out in more than two months and hadn’t kissed or touched in almost the same amount of time. And other than guilt for being a shit boyfriend, I didn’t really feel...well, anything. When I brought it up to Agatha during our next shift together, she shrugged gracefully, and admitted that she hadn’t really thought we were still dating. So, we just let that be it. I was a bit embarrassed at how thick I’d been, but Agatha seemed unbothered, so we’ve just kept on as we were.

I honestly love working here, and not just ‘cause Ebb took me on when no one else would have. The shop itself is cozy and warm, with well-worn polished oak floors, tables of shining honey coloured wood and a mismatched collection of wooden chairs with cushions in several shades of pastel. The walls are adorned with mint coloured wallpaper depicting green leaves and star-like white flowers. And everywhere, there’s goats. Ebb’s been collecting goat memorabilia since she was a girl (and at home, she even keeps a couple of nannies, which she treats more like friends than pets). All over the walls, there are pocket shelves with goat figurines and ornaments, and framed art of goat-heavy pastoral scenes. In fact, the only part of the shop lacking goat related decor is the bakery case. And that’s my damned fault. If I hadn’t lost my shit at All-Sorts...well, that’s water under the bridge now.

I scowl again over my recent failures and vent my feelings on the acrylic countertop, scrubbing it nearly hard enough to strip the finish. I’m distracted from my own vexation by the airy tinkling of the tiny cluster of bells Ebb has hung from the doorknob, and I sigh, relieved to be distracted from my bitter thoughts, at least for a little while. 

My relief turns to horror in an instant when I look up to see glossy, straight black hair, sharp grey eyes, and a profile that wouldn’t look out of place on a marble statue. With a mortifying “Eep!”, I turn immediately and flee into the storage room.

**Baz**

Well, this is starting just splendidly. I’ve been in Simon Snow’s presence again for approximately 1.5 seconds and he’s already running away from me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; why should he be happy to see me? I’m sure our last interaction wouldn’t make anyone’s top ten list of good times. 

I’ve been marinating in my guilt for the last week, moping around the flat I share with my aunt and apparently doing an excessive amount of heavy sighing. Or at least, that’s what Fiona said this morning when she kicked me out on my arse. “And don’t come back until you’ve dealt with your problem, Basil!” she’d snarled, as she tossed my umbrella out the door after me. Insufferable woman! No one was forcing her to participate in my misery, she brought that on herself.

Still, she had a point. My conscience has been nagging at me ever since that cursed night at All-Sorts (ludicrous name for a business). My sour mood and general unpleasantness has likely caused real world repercussions for the shop assistant; I very much doubt he was working at that bastion of rampant consumerism for fun. He likely needed the money badly for something. It behooves me to find the boy, and offer reparation of some sort.

It took nearly an hour of cajoling of several different harassed looking All-Sorts employees before I finally found someone who knew something about Snow. His name badge read “I’m Rhys, and I’m here to make your day!” Moronic. He was able to tell me that the night our paths crossed was Simon Snow’s first and only shift at All-Sorts.

“Can’t blame ‘im, really,” Rhys-I’m-Here-To-Make-Your-Day sighed. “Black Friday is pretty much the apocalypse of the retail world, and only those who’ve lost their souls survive it.” I restrained a snort at this absurdly gloomy view of retail existence, and merely nodded for him to go on. 

“I didna know ‘im well,'' the man continued, scratching the thinning hair atop his head, “but he did mention tha’ his day job was a coffee shop or summat? Something about goats?” That was more than I’d gotten out of anyone else that night, and even so, it was a slim lead, but it was all I had.

As it turns out, though, it was exactly the information I needed. I searched nearby coffee shops on my Google maps once I’d exited the supermarket, and, to my surprise and delight, one of the first ten results was a cafe called “The Grey Goat.” That led me here, and the first thing I saw as I walked in the door was Snow’s shocked and horrified gaze, before he turned his back on me and fled.

I sigh, and my head droops for a moment, but then I square my shoulders and press on. The blonde girl who remains at the counter is gaping after Snow, so it takes me a moment to get her attention. Finally, she turns to me and says, “Can I help you?” in an unsettled voice.

I grimace. “I’m not sure if you can, but I need to ask for your help anyways. I truly, desperately, need to talk to the bloke that just ran off.” Now, I turn on the charm: “I don’t suppose you could let him know I’d like a word? It would mean the world to me.” She colours prettily at the blatant flirtatiousness of my words and tone, and I give her a slow, devastating smile to seal the deal, as it were.

Almost before I’m done speaking, she’s nodding and smiling, and she trots off to whatever warren of back rooms are housed in this building. Within moments, I hear her speaking. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is scathing. I hear soft rumbles in response, Snow’s voice. Finally, and with obvious reluctance, he emerges from the back, one hand running through the froth of curls atop his head, the other twisting the fabric of his apron. He glances at me under lowered lids, and then looks away, his expression pained. He inches up to the till, and, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on its keys, mumbles, “How can I help you?”

**Simon**

I can’t look him in the eyes; I can feel the embarrassment brightening my skin, so I fix my eyes on his shirt. It’s blue, with lavender flowers (or maybe mauve? I dunno, it’s an odd sort of purple, so whatever). It looks expensive.

“I’d like...a mocha frappe venti and...a few minutes of your time?” His voice is as smooth as caramel and I listen more to the sound of it than the words at first. Then comprehension trickles into my brain, and my head shoots up.

“Huh?”

I said…”could I please have a mocha frappe venti, and can I talk with you for a bit?” He speaks slowly, but I’m surprised to find that I don’t think he’s being condescending. He looks pained, but his eyes are honest. There’s not the hint of a sneer on his lips (though they do look made for sneering). (Or pouting). (Maybe both? Snouting? Peering? Oh, nevermind). There’s a slight flush high on his cheekbones, and he’s drawn the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth and is chewing on it. This sign of anxiety relaxes me for some reason. He’d hardly be anxious if he were here to tell me off.

“Uh...sure? I guess? Gimme a minute...” I turn and set to work making his drink, and the whole time, I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. Or maybe my neck. Maybe he’s a vampire and he’s memorizing where he’s gonna bite me? He looks the part, with his sleek black hair and stark widow’s peak. Aren’t vampires supposed to be awfully fit? See, that proves it then, he’s definitely a vampire. 

Once I’ve finished his coffee (and an espresso for myself, I have a feeling I’m going to need to be on my toes for the next few minutes), I jerk my head towards a table in the corner, away from the window (plenty of room for running if he sets me off). He glides off (see? Vampire, I told you) and takes the seat on the right-hand side. I follow after him and set our drinks down before sitting down myself, facing him.

He picks up his drink, and sips it slowly. His eyes are downcast and his brows are furrowed. He seems to be struggling; his jaw works a few times between sips, and his mouth dips open as if to begin, but no words come out. I decide to jump in, get things started. 

“I..er, I want you to know that my behaviour last week was not me. I mean...it was me, but it wasn’t...I mean, I’m not like that usually, you know? I—I...it was a really long night, I’d been on shift for 12 hours…”

He starts into his own speech just a fraction of a second after I started speaking, and so our words ended up running over each other, but I still hear what he says: 

“Snow...I wanted you to know that I didn’t mean to provoke you, I just, it had been a tremendously long night...I’d already been to 3 other shops, and that blasted barbie…”

We both stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at one another, startled. Finally, Baz spoke slowly, “Snow, are we actually trying to apologize to each other? For the same event?”

I feel a grin growing on my face. Maybe this bloke’s not so bad. “I s’pose we are, ay? Hello, then. It seems you already know my name, but let’s make it official. I’m Simon Snow.” I offer him my sweaty paw without thinking, and, to his credit, he takes hold of it in his own cool, slim hand, and gives it a firm shake.

“Baz Pitch. I’m pleased to meet you, Simon Snow.” His mouth crooks up on one side and his eyes are smiling at me in such a way that what had appeared gray is now a dancing mixture of deep sea colours, blue and green. My jaw drops a little at how nice he looks when he smiles.

**Baz**

Now that we’ve both realised that neither of us plans to excoriate the other, I relax and enjoy my coffee. It’s excellent. Clearly, Simon Snow is excellent at his day job. That’s a relief, but I’m still concerned that the loss of his All-Sorts job will have put him in a tight spot. So, after I’ve watched him chug his drink (definitely not watching the showy way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his long, mole dotted neck), I begin again.

“Snow...I still do want to apologise for being unacceptably rude to you that night.”

He grins. There’s a pale brown milk moustache over his upper lip and I’m seized with the wild desire to clean it off for him...with my tongue. I wrestle down my deviant impulse and wait for his response.

“Nah, it’s alright,” he says, cheerfully. “You were a right arsehole, but I saw a whole lot worse that night. I was at a tipping point, I think, and almost anyone would’ve set me off. I’m pretty sure I’m not cut out for retail.” 

I smirk. Given his performance on Black Friday, I think he has a point. Still…

“You won’t be in a bind without the extra income?” I’m on a tight budget (for me); I’m aware that I’m privileged, but still, my parents do want an accounting of anything I spend that costs more than a hundred pounds or so. But I’m certain there’s something I could do to help him out if he’s suffering financially.

He shakes his head, though a shadow passes behind his eyes. “No. I make enough here to cover the essentials.” 

I sense that there’s something he’s not sharing, so I prod him: “and the nonessentials?”

He shrugs, looking away. “I’m a simple bloke, I don’t need much beyond the basics.” I look him over. He’s wearing a plain, black t-shirt, the kind you can buy in a pack of 5 at Asda. His jeans are the kind of worn that comes from hard living and not artful “distressing.” The fraying at the knees happened honestly. He’s clean, but shabby. This is not a fellow who is living the high life, in any way, shape, or form. 

I poke again. “But you chose to work at that devil’s playground during the most nightmarish time of the year for retail employees. There must have been a reason.”

He sighs. “I wasn’t working there for me. I was working there for Ebb.”

“Ebb?” I ask.

“Ebb’s the owner of this place,” he gestures to the homey, cluttered cafe surrounding us. “She’s my foster parent. She took me in, years ago. I was just a scrap of a boy, 11 years old, when I ran away from my most recent care home the first time. Things...weren’t good there, and I’d blown up at the other kids and the adults. Made a complete tit of myself, really. I was bound and determined to never go back. Figured I’d make my new Oliver Twist life on the mean streets.” 

His eyes had been following his fingers, which are tracing spiral shapes on the glossy wood tabletop, but now he looks up at me and smiles a little mistily at the memory he is relaying. “That day, I strolled right up to Ebb’s counter and right out asked her if I could sweep her floors in return for a scone or two. My blow up took place during breakfast, so I hadn’t eaten at all that day. Not only did Ebb give me a whole plate of pastries and a brimming cup of milk for my tiny bit of labour that day, but she also sat with me as I ate. She didn’t demand anything of me, didn’t even ask me to talk at all. She was so comfortable to be around that I found myself spilling all of my miserable life story to her that afternoon.”

**Simon**

I swirl the dregs of my milk in the bottom of my mug, lost in thought. Ebb probably saved my life that day. I was on a bad path, one that would likely have ended in death or gaol before too many more years had passed. That afternoon, she talked me out of my Dickensian plans and drove me back to the care home. Before she left me there, she promised me that there would always be food and work for me in her cafe if I wanted it. What I didn’t know until much later was that she called child services that afternoon and cross-examined them on how someone could become a foster parent. 

All I knew was, two months later, the sour deacon in charge of my most recent home commanded me to pack up my meager belongings and escorted me silently out the front door to where Ebb’s ancient Volvo was idling. She took me in, and brought me up, and I’ll never be done owing her for that.

I look back up at Baz, who’s waited patiently while I’ve been sifting through my memories. “I’ve worked full time in her coffee shop since I was 16,” I tell him, “and I would’ve before that, but she insisted that I focus on getting better at the whole school thing. School and I have never been on good terms, but Ebb saw that I was checked for learning disabilities, and got me diagnosed with a speech impediment, and dyslexia, and saw that I got the extra tutoring I needed to bring me up to speed with my peers. It’s because of her that I’m in my third year of Uni now, and really, I’m doing just fine.”

Baz gazes around at the details of the cafe again. I wonder how it looks, in his eyes? Homey and comfortable? Corny and kitschy?. He doesn’t comment, however, other than to say, “If Ebb owns this place, why does she need you to work a second job? Working here and at All-Sorts and going to Uni would seem to be an unbearable slog for you.” 

I quirk a grin at him and his eyes soften at that. He’s got some of the loveliest eyes; dark gray, like antique silver, edged with luxuriantly thick black eyelashes. They’re hard to look away from. “Ebb doesn’t know I took the job at All-Sorts. I did it because there was a particular present I wanted to buy her, and this job, while it takes care of the necessities, doesn’t stretch to paying for antique tea services.”

His eyes light up in curiosity at that. “This is a coffee shop. You must have plenty of serving vessels for beverages of every sort,” he points out.

I nod in acknowledgement, and explain, “Well, you see, Ebb loves goats, right?” He snorts at that, and I laugh a little. It is a little obvious, I suppose. “And, she’s got this empty shelf in the top of the display case; it’s just the right size for a decorative piece. And I always have the worst time finding a decent Christmas present for her, but this year, I overheard her talking with a friend about a tea service her nan used to have when she was a child. It was painted with goats, and she used to love to stare at it. She’d always beg her nan to serve tea in it, but I guess it was an antique even then, because her nan would always say, ‘no, it's too old and valuable to use for everyday’. The original set was lost in a house fire when Ebb was a teen, and Ebb said that she wished she could afford that same tea set nowadays, because it would be perfect in the top of the display case.” I don’t mention how tears dripped down her face as she spoke of it because, really, it’s not out of the ordinary for Ebb. She cries over pet food commercials. Bit of a weeper, Ebb is.

“Anyways,” I continue, “I looked up the tea service. It’s possible to buy it online, but it costs 300 pounds. I’m always skint after the bills are paid, so I took the All-sorts job to earn enough to buy it, and maybe a few other presents.”

Baz’s gaze is curiously intent. He looks away for a moment, and then back at me. He licks his lips and then asks, “What’s the set called?” 

“It’s Staffordshire china and it’s called ‘A girl with a goat’.” Baz chuckles and I laugh a little ruefully. It is a bit on the nose, I suppose. After a few more questions, Baz changes the subject and asks me about my Uni courses. 

Some time later, I feel gentle fingers on my shoulder, and I look up with a start from my conversation with Baz. Agatha is dressed in her street clothes with her apron hanging over one arm. She smiles at me kindly, and then says, “Simon, I’ve got to get going. I’ll lock up, but you can finish the closing work, right?” A little wildly, I look up to the wooden cuckoo clock on the wall (when the hour strikes, a little goatherd chases his herd of goats out one miniature door at the top of the clock face and back into another on the other side). I’m astonished to find that it’s past 9 o’clock. That means Baz and I have been talking for the past two hours. It didn’t really feel like any time passed at all, he’s so easy to talk to. With considerable reluctance, I turn to Baz and say, “I’m sorry. I really need to get back to work.”

“Of course, Snow.” he nods, smiling at me in a way that makes my heart thump in my chest. With a great deal of reluctance, I stand and turn away, and then I hear him. “Snow, a moment, if you please?” Turning back, I see that he’s holding out his phone to me. I’m puzzled until I see that the calling app is open to the page to enter a new contact. Then I’m elated. Baz seems shy all of a sudden, looking away and clearing his throat softly. “I’d like to see you again, if I could,” he murmurs.

I’m grinning in triumph as I type my name and phone number into Baz Pitch’s phone.

**Baz**

It’s been two weeks, and Snow and I have texted, or facetimed, every single day, sometimes several times a day. He’s an uncouth correspondent, wouldn’t recognise a preposition to save his life, and I’m utterly lost; so in love with him that it hurts. Unfortunately, I still haven’t a clear notion how he feels about me. 

Today, we’re meeting in person again, after his work shift, and I plan to try to feel him out on the subject of going on a date. And so, I’m staring at my wardrobe in desperation. What do you wear when you’re trying to say, ‘I want you, I love you, but if you aren’t feeling the same way, can we pretend this never happened’?

Ok, I know absolutely nothing I could wear would say that, but I do want to exude sex appeal while also looking like I’m not actually trying to do that at all. Not to mention the fact that there’s six inches of snow on the ground, and he’ll probably hardly see me under the layers of cold weather gear I’ll need to wear. 

I sigh as I decide upon my tightest pair of black jeans and a v-neck, evergreen coloured t-shirt. Might as well show some (subtle) holiday spirit. I then promptly bury everything under a jumper, scarf, gloves, hat and a Burberry trench coat of black felted wool. 

Grabbing my keys and wallet, I’m out the door in plenty of time to catch the end of Simon’s shift, which is all part of my plan. I’m hoping to tease and distract him while he’s working, maybe see if I can set that golden skin afire again with blushes, and make those bold blue eyes sparkle and darken in lust. I don’t know for certain if Snow is gay, but I do know that he spent a lot of his time alternating between staring at me and blushing, the last time I saw him in person. I think he’s attracted to me. I hope he’s willing to act on it.

Twenty minutes later, a swirl of snow and wind propel me through the door of the Goat Cafe with far less dignity than I had hoped. As the blasted bells above the door merrily announce my arrival to all and sundry, I struggle to push the door closed against the wind. When I finally succeed and turn around, red-faced and windswept, everyone in the coffee shop is staring at me. Lovely. I give my best sneer to the gawkers, and most turn hastily back to their pastries and laptops. The one exception—Simon Snow—continues watching me with a wide grin on his freckled face. 

I roll my eyes in exasperation, and give up on the idea of tormenting Snow. The weather has defeated me, and now all I want is a hot, ridiculously sweet drink and Snow’s lovely visage to rest my eyes on for the rest of the night. As I order my favorite mocha, I can tell that Snow is trying to repress his mirth, though he can’t hide the amused twinkle in his eyes. 

Apparently he didn’t suppress it entirely, however, because when I retrieve my drink from the counter, he’s written ‘SnowBaz’ on the outside, along with a somewhat lopsided drawing of a traditional snowman: three circles making the body, twigs for arms, a carroty nose and coal dots for eyes and mouth. This snowman has a unique feature, however: shoulder length black hair going off in every direction like an electrified porcupine. I scowl in his direction, but he never loses his delighted grin, though now he adds a wink. When I stare at him, flustered, he ups the ante by blowing me a kiss. My eyes widen and I can feel my ears heat up. Snow just chortles and turns to help the next customer.

I hasten to a table as distant from the service counter as I can find, and firmly sit in a seat with my back to Snow. I’d intended to sit near him and ogle him for the whole 15 minutes remaining of his shift, but now I want to make sure he can no longer see how discomposed I am, both by his teasing, and his flirting. I’m terrible at this.

I’ve managed to down two thirds of my drink by the time Snow pulls out the chair across from me and slumps down into it. I ignore him, pretending to be deeply absorbed in an advertisement on … what am I looking at? Penile enlargement? Upon realizing what’s displayed on the pop-up ad that’s appeared on my screen while I was obsessing over Simon Snow, I shove my phone hastily in my pocket. The last thing I need is for him to look over my shoulder and see _that_. I’d be handing him even more ammunition for his jokes. (And I’d definitely rather he not think I have need for such procedures.) And, now I have no excuse not to look at him. 

“Hello, Snow,” I say.

“Baz,” he grins.

“How goes the coffee business today?” I ask. Snow shrugs, and then looks at me with a glint in his eye. Oh no, I recognize that expression. He’s going to do his best to wind me up, the tease. I don’t know how I’ll survive this. (I love it.) (But he doesn’t need to know that.)

“So...Baz. I thought you were one of a kind? You didn’t tell me you had a twin,” he twinkles at me.

“I...what on earth are you on about, Snow?”

He holds up his phone, which had been resting face down on the table between us and shows me a picture of ...a goat. A kid, to be exact, with white fur all over its body except for a cap of black fur on its head that I have to admit does resemble the typical shape of my hairstyle. The baby goat is holding an arrogant pose, chin in the air, while giving the photographer some serious side-eye.

I roll my eyes obnoxiously at him. “Seriously, Snow? A goat?”

“He looks just like you, Baz! It’s like you two were separated at birth!” he cackles. 

I allow myself the tiniest fraction of a grin, and Snow jumps on it. “You do think it’s funny! See, I knew you would.”

“Alright, it’s a little funny,” I concede. Then, I gather the shreds of my courage, and begin, “Simon…”

“Simon!” The jangly ruckus from the door bells can’t even remotely compete with the enthusiastic shouting of the small, round girl now standing just inside the doorway. She’s bundled in so many layers, she looks more clothing than person. A tall, darker skinned man stands behind her, wearing a loosely wrapped scarf and beanie with a pin-bedecked denim jacket that is ridiculously inappropriate for this weather. The man is smiling genially. My instincts tell me to trust this fellow on sight, so I immediately decide not to trust him, because my instincts are generally fucking liars.

This strident apparition catches sight of us and trots over to the table, immediately plopping down next to Simon and wrapping her arms around him. He looks fond, and I’m trying to decide if this is a reason to be jealous when I realise that the tall fellow is standing politely by me, waiting to be noticed. 

“Hello?” I inquire cooly, one eyebrow raised. I don’t know this man, nor the girl, and they’ve interrupted my tête-à-tête with Snow. I’m not inclined to be friendly. The newcomer seems completely unaware of my chilly demeanor, however. 

“Hi!” He says, in a distinctly American accent. He sticks out one knobby fingered hand in my direction, and continues, “I’m Shepard, from Omaha, Nebraska.” His enthusiasm is already exhausting me, but my parents would be horrified at overt rudeness, so the temptation to ignore his outstretched hand is quickly overcome by childhood training. I offer my hand tentatively, and he pumps it vigorously. I hide a sigh. If this fellow were an animal, he’d clearly be a Labrador puppy, all energy and friendliness.

“Baz Pitch,” I offer reluctantly.

“Pleased to meet you, Baz! May I sit?” he asks, but confidently, as if he has no thought of me refusing. Swallowing another sigh, I scoot over obediently, and he folds his long limbs into the booth. I sympathize with him there; by the looks of it, he’s as tall as I am, if not taller, and standard seating in most restaurants and public transport are highly inadequate for the length of legs like ours.

Unhappily, I turn back to face Simon and the girl clinging to him. He’s just releasing her from his arms with a “‘Lo, Penny. What’re you doing here so early?” So, she’s a regular visitor? My gut clenches for a moment, before I absorb the girl’s name, and then I realise with relief that this is his best friend and roommate, Penelope Bunce. In one of our conversations, he mentioned that she was dating an American. That must be Shepard.

Bunce has turned towards Shepard and I, and there’s a sly gleam in her eyes. “So, this is Baz!” she exclaims, and I’m immediately self-conscious. What has Snow told her about me? That I’m a snob and a prat? I wouldn’t blame him, after the fiasco of Black Friday.

Before I can get too deeply entrenched in self-recrimination, I realise that Simon has gone quite red. The reason why becomes apparent when Bunce continues. “Baz Pitch,” she practically coos at me, though this is clearly not a woman made for cooing. “I’ve heard so much about you! Why, Simon never stops--” and at this point, Simon jabs her in the ribs with his elbow, saying, “Pen!” in a strangled voice.

She chuckles evilly, but subsides. The flash of delight in her eyes tells me that she’s not even close to done with her teasing, so I decide to remain on guard. Still, I’m delighted. Simon has been talking about me at home! He wouldn’t do that if he felt nothing, would he?

“So!” Bunce turns to Simon, and starts talking as if she were continuing a conversation, not starting one. “As I was saying, Simon, Shepard’s company holiday party is going to be on Friday, and I’ve finally got the tickets.” Simon nods, clearly understanding, though I’m a bit mystified. What kind of company party requires tickets? 

Bunce correctly interprets the confusion on my face. “Shep works for the London branch of XPL music as a sound editor. Their holiday party has become somewhat legendary, so they’ve started requiring tickets for admission to prevent party-crashing. Shep has been working on getting some extra guest tickets for days, because the company’s usual policy is just the employee plus one, which leaves Simon out in the cold. But now he’s succeeded. In fact, Simon,” and she turns back to Snow and I notice uneasily that the gleam is back in her eyes. “Shep did even better. You get a plus one too! I wonder who you could invite?” Here, she smirks at me, and my heart begins to hammer in my chest. Will he?

“Penn,” he mumbles, his face once again so red that his freckles and moles look pale against it. “Please!”

“Let you do your own romancing? I’d be happy to!” Her expression is immensely self-satisfied, as she plops two gilt-edged pieces of cardboard onto the table between us, and hops out of her seat. She gestures peremptorily at Shepard, and I wonder, not for the first time today, about the pairing between big, amiable Shepard, and the tiny, imperious whirlwind that is Penelope. Oh well, I shrug internally. Not my business. The tickets in front of Snow, however...if I’m not deluded by my own yearning, those may very well be my business, mine and Snow’s. I watch him, tense with hope and fear.

**Simon**

Blast Penny to Edinburgh and back! She might have ruined everything. I had a _plan_. I was going to jolly Baz into a cheerful mood and then suggest something fun we could do later, to keep the fun going, as it were. Now Baz knows about the tickets, and instead of something light-hearted and easy, I need to invite him to the hottest party of the season. The XPL party attracts all sorts of rich and famous people. Last year, Harry Styles and Dido were both in attendance (Shep got me the autographs. Unfortunately, he couldn’t score me a ticket last year). Also, there’s the matter of the date that the party falls on this year…

Baz clears his throat uncomfortably, and I realise how long I’ve been staring, stupefied, at the tickets on the table between us. “Snow, it’s utterly clear what your roommate was hinting at, but I want you to know that you don’t have to waste your plus one on me. I understand that you barely know me, and you probably have someone else you’d rather bring.” His voice flows easily, but his eyes look sad. How could he think…?

“No!” I exclaim, and then I wince, because my voice comes out loud enough to make heads turn at nearby tables. “No,” I repeat more quietly, “It’s just that I don’t think you’d really enjoy it much.” I see his eyes close briefly, and when they reopen, it’s as if shutters have been drawn; all expression is gone from his face. 

“I see,” he says coldly, and then begins to rise. “Well, it’s time I was going, then. See you around, Snow.”

Oh fuck, he thinks I’m rejecting him! I’m completely bollocksing this up. “No, wait!” I cry, and this time, I don’t care how many customers I disturb with my volume. “No, Baz, you don’t understand! There’s nobody I’d want to bring but you, it’s just...I’d wanted to ask you out to something a bit lower pressure that the “It” party of the year.”

He sits back down slowly, and eyes me warily. “You wanted to ask me out?” he asks.

“‘Course I did, Baz. I mean, I do still. I really like you; you’re fun to be around, and you're well fit too,” I pause then and feel my cheeks heating; I hadn’t meant to tell him that last bit.

Baz looks appeased now, at least. In fact, I think he’s amused. He smirks at me. “I’m well fit, am I?” Smug git.

Anyhow, well, now that Penny’s put her spoon in the pot or her two cents in, or whatever axiom describes a Penelope level of busybodyness (there probably is no phrase that can fully capture Penny’s level of interfering), I may as well do as she (heavily) hinted I should. 

“So, given all that, Baz, would you like to come to Shep’s company party with me Friday?” I venture. I’m trembling a bit in fear of his answer, but I think I’m reading him well enough to expect that he’s interested in me too.

Instead of answering, he asks me a question of his own: “Why did you think I wouldn’t like it?”

I bite my lip. I should’ve known he would ask. “It’s because of the day this year’s party falls on. December eleventh.” Baz just looks blank, so I elaborate, “Christmas Jumper day.” He nods in acknowledgement, but still looks mystified. 

“The party promoters decided to go all out on that and make the funds raised from ticket sales and drink purchases go towards the Save the Children charity.” Baz nods again, but I can tell he’s not realised the punchline yet.

“That’s lovely of them, Snow. Why would I dislike that? I’m not Ebenezer Scrooge, you know. I do enjoy the holidays and support charitable donations.”

“It’s not that,” I groan. How can I tell the bloke I want to keep in my life that I think he’s too posh to enjoy this particular party? “It’s just that, they decided to make ugly jumpers the theme of the party. They’re having contests for ugliest jumpers, funniest, all sorts of categories. And...” I pause. How do I phrase this delicately? “Nobody’s allowed in without an ugly holiday jumper on. I was afraid that might be a bit…” I struggle, but no words come out.

“Beneath my dignity?” Baz saves me, and I sigh and nod. “Don’t worry, Snow. My dignity can handle a little denting. I’d love to go.”

Joy surges through my veins, and I want to jump out of my seat and kiss him, but that really might scare him away. But in my head, I’m caroling it to the heavens; I have a date with Baz Pitch!

**Baz**

I have a date with Simon Snow! Moreover, I have a date where I can’t rely on my usual elegance and fashion sense to impress, because I am committed to wearing an “ugly jumper”. Not to mention the fact that Snow mentioned that there would be “ugly” jumper contests, and I am nothing if not competitive. So, I’ve gone all out. I hope he appreciates the effort, because I’m feeling a little queasy at the view of myself in my bathroom mirror. With one last sweep over my hair, I sigh in resignation and pull my coat over my ensemble. 

As I leave the bathroom, I see my gift for Simon, wrapped in simple brown paper, sitting on my bed. Chewing on my lip, I consider it. It’s an extravagant gift, and I’m not sure how he’ll react to it, but when I discovered it at Pitch manor last weekend, I couldn’t resist. In the end, I tuck it under my arm and head out the door, mentally rehearsing arguments on why Simon should accept my gift all the way to his flat.

When I arrive, I’m greeted pleasantly by Shepard; he’s wearing black jeans and a generic looking black jumper with zigzagging lines of red and green, separated by lines of green holly leaves with red berries. His lacklustre ugly jumper effort is not what captures my attention, however. Instead, my eyes are drawn to a bizarre vision in tinsel and plastic leaves, frantically shuffling through piles of holiday bric-a-brac in the room behind him. Bunce has sewn or taped legions of plastic leaves all over an ordinary jumper, and interspersed puffballs of vivid red tinsel. She’s also wearing a headband with the same leaves along the band, and two balls of red tinsel on springs coming off of it. Ok, she may well win for ugliest jumper, I don’t know how I could compete with that monstrosity.

“Is that Baz?” Bunce yells. When Shepard replies in the affirmative, she bellows, “Well, don’t just stand there, let him in! I’ve got an extra jumper here somewhere if he wasn’t able to find anything suitable…” 

I shudder to think of what she might have chosen for me, so I cut in smoothly, “No need, Bunce, I was able to make do.” Shepard steps aside so that I can pass, and I stroll into the room. At Bunce’s wide eyed look, I pirouette in place, showing off the result of my costuming endeavors.

“Not bad, Baz. Not bad at all!” She nods approvingly and I incline my head graciously in return.

“I wish I could return the sentiment, but I’m afraid I can’t decipher your jumper,” I admit.

“Ugh! I swear, you and Simon! I’m clearly, “The Holly and the Ivy”, you know the song?” When I nod dubiously, she points to one leaf and says, “Holly” and then points to another differently shaped leaf, and says “Ivy”. 

“And the, er, tinsel?” I ask.

“The holly berries, of course!” she exclaims, clearly exasperated. 

Not willing to annoy the best friend of my date anymore than I already have, I give her a conciliatory smile and say, “Ah, I see it now. Well done. May I ask where Snow is?”

With a huff, she points to the nearer of two doors off of the living room, and I stride over and tap on the door. “I’ll be out in a minute, Penny!” Simon shouts from the other side, sounding harried. 

“It’s me, Snow,” I announce, and I can barely get the words out before the door springs open, and Simon is beaming at me in the doorway. I gape at him. I take it back, Simon will surely win for most hideous jumper tonight. Instead of typical Christmas colours, Simon’s jumper is a hideous flesh tone, and it is screen printed to look like a naked, hairy male chest, with underdeveloped pectoral muscles and a realistic beer belly. As if that weren’t bad enough, the image is decorated with christmas lights and ornaments, as if the hairy torso were some demented sort of Christmas tree.

“What on earth is that, Snow?” I ask, aghast.

He shrugs, and laughs. “Well, it is an ugly jumper party. You can’t get much uglier that this! But you, Baz,” he continues, eyes widening, “you look amazing!” 

A little flustered at the frank admiration in his gaze, I thank him, and ask for a place to set down my package. Simon’s brow furrows. “What is that, Baz?”

“A little something for later, Snow.” I hand it to him. He shrugs and sets it on the bed behind him, and then turns back to me. 

“For later?” he questions.

“For later, Snow. For now, I believe we have a party to conquer and contests to win. Shall we go?” He laughs, and nods, and, with a few last minute diversions for people to look for necessary items, and one trip back into the flat to collect the tickets Simon forgot, we are on our way.

**Simon**

I never thought that seeing a bloke in an ugly holiday jumper would make me want to get in his pants, but here we are. I’m not sure “ugly” is really an appropriate word to use on Baz’s outfit, though. His jumper is made of some unbelievably soft material (cashmere? Do they make ugly jumpers out of cashmere?) and it depicts a (deceptively) simple scene of a fireplace mantle, decorated for the holidays. 

The mantle itself, which falls across where his nipples probably lie underneath the fabric, is made of a different material that manages to somehow look like polished wood. The mantle top has two candlesticks, one on either end touching his shoulders, looking romantic and wistful, somehow like an impressionist painting of candles. The ‘wood’ itself is twined with real twinkle lights that blink cheerfully in a variety of colours. I wonder how he gets electricity to them?

Four real, toddler sized stockings hang from the ‘mantle’, looking as if they are pinned to the wood. The stockings, in gemstone colours of sapphire, emerald, amethyst and ruby, sway gently against Baz’s chest when he moves. The bottom of the sweater is meant to show the tops of the flames in the fireplace, I think. It’s an abstract looking jagged design in bright oranges and reds, wonderfully and beautifully done. 

The jumper snugs over his slim hips, which are clad in skin tight jeans in a vivid red-gold, patterned with swirls and curlicues. It’s like flames are licking up his legs. And, though I can admit I’ve stared at his legs before, I can’t take my eyes off them now...so long and clearly toned under the figure hugging denim. At least, I can’t take my eyes off his legs until he turns and I catch a glimpse of his arse.

The party is only a few blocks from our flat, so we’re walking there, and I’ve spent more time ogling Baz on the walk than I’ve spent watching where I’m going. Only his quick reflexes saved me from walking face first into a pole as we left the flat, and just a moment ago, he stopped me from stepping off the kerb into a puddle of dirty slush. 

Two blunders shows the beginning of a pattern of idiocy, or so he teased me after the last time, but since he used it as an excuse to take my hand, ‘to prevent disaster,’ (or so he says), I’m not complaining. Not if I get to hold his cool, slim-fingered hand for the rest of the walk to the party. 

Penny, who’s walking ahead of us, with her arm wrapped around Shepard’s waist and snuggled under his coat, looks back and gives me a knowing smirk. I give her the finger and look away, and I hear her chortle, but when I look back, she’s facing away again, feigning perfect innocence.

We hear the party long before we see it. The thump of base from a recent top forties hit (probably being performed by the original artist, at _this_ party) echoes for streets around. It’s good that the party is being held in a business district and not a neighborhood, otherwise, all the fusspot residents would be calling in noise complaints. 

As we draw closer, we can see a ever-cascading parade of holiday scenes being projected on the outside of the massive building, so that it’s alternately lit up in patterns of blue and white for Chanukah scenes, red and green for Christmas ones, red, black and green for Kwanzaa, and other colour and image combinations for holidays I’m not as familiar with, though I think I see some lovely diyas skitter across the the building’s face at one point (Penny taught me about those). 

I’m still staring at the light show, open-mouthed, when Baz drags me up to the bouncer or usher, or whatever the hell he is. All I know is that he towers over even Baz, which isn’t easy to do, and looks like he could bench press a Land Rover. He stares down his nose at me until I awaken from my stupor and fish the tickets out of my jacket pocket, and then he simply nods and waves me in. Penny and Shep have already disappeared into the crown of enthusiastically gyrating twenty-somethings. 

**Baz**

The night passes in a haze of thumping music, endless dancing and screaming fans, every time a new music act is announced. Half of the musicians that are announced, I’ve never heard of, but the audience clearly has, and they share their appreciation at high volume. 

Snow is endlessly enthused about each act, though I think I’ve never seen him so enthralled as he was when he noticed the hors d’ oeuvres table. I think he could have quite happily grazed there all night, but after I’d indulged his appetite for half an hour, I was quite done, and pulled him onto the dance floor with his last petit four still in hand.

Watching Simon Snow dance is quite an experience. He hasn’t any training in any style of dance, that much is clear, but the sheer joy he exudes as he bounces and jigs in place make him enthralling to watch. At least for me. ( Actually, to be honest, I’d probably be enthralled by watching him tie his shoes.) (I’m so far gone.)

When the current act, a ginger named Ed something or other (at least he has some songs I recognise), switches to a soulful, sad ballad, and all of the folk on the dance floor either wander off for refreshments or pair up to dance in couples, I swallow nervously. I lift my eyes to meet Snow’s, and he’s smiling at me. “Baz,” he says to me, in a voice roughened by shouting, “will you dance with me?”

I nod wordlessly and he pulls me close. Since I’m the taller of the two of us, he loops his arms around my neck and I, with some trepidation, settle mine on his hips. He feels so fucking good under my hands. I can’t resist smoothing my fingers up and down his sides as we move.

We talk a little, as we dance, but it’s already been a long night, and soon Simon lays his curly head against my chest and closes his eyes as we sway together. I let my hands slide around his back to meet just at the point where his lower back meets the top of his arse, and I rest my head atop his. 

After some minutes of swaying (since the singer has segued from one slow song to another), I open my eyes to see that Bunce and Shepard (does that fellow even have a last name?) are swaying together next to us. There’s a glimmer of mirth in Bunce’s eyes when she catches mine, but she doesn’t speak to me. Instead, she cups one hand around her mouth and calls out, embarrassingly loudly, “Oy! Simon! Look up!”

Simon’s head jerks up so fast he narrowly avoids clipping my chin. He looks around wildly for a moment, before looking at Bunce, who’s pointing at the ceiling. He looks up to see what I’ve already realised: our slow circles around the dance floor have brought us to a point exactly underneath a red-ribboned bunch of mistletoe. Snow stares for a moment, his throat bobbing as he swallows, but then he flashes me a wicked grin and tilts his face up to mine, invitingly. 

He’s left the final decision on a kiss up to me, but there’s really no way I’d refuse this opportunity. I bend down and touch my lips to his, softly. His lips part and his eyes widen, and then he surges up eagerly towards me, taking my mouth captive with his own. His hands hold the sides of my face while his lips press against my own, once, twice and a third time before he shifts back on his heels and regards me with the widest grin yet. “Alright, Baz?” he asks. 

I nod, dazed, and we resume our former positions, though I’m certain that it’s not my imagination that he shifts closer to me. I can feel his entire body pressed against the length of mine, and I’m in paradise. I also think it’s not my imagination alone that makes the front of his trousers pressed against me feel fuller than just a moment ago. 

Just as I decide I could be happy holding Simon Snow in my arms for the rest of the night, the hired DJ takes over the mike and begins to announce the various ugly jumper competitions. He tells everyone where to register as competitors and where to get photographed. 

Simon is still standing loosely in the circle of my arms when I return my attention to him. “Do you really want to stay for the competition?” he asks. Wordlessly, I shake my head. I dressed up tonight to impress one person, and I think I succeeded in my aim, so the actual party event is irrelevant to me. Simon smiles, and there’s something dark and hungry in his expression this time. I shiver in reaction and feel my cock stirring against the restrictive fabric of my jeans.

Simon excuses himself and my arms immediately miss the feel of him against me. He trots over the Bunce and speaks urgently for a moment. She laughs and nods, and then says something that makes the tips of Snow’s ears blaze red (the only part of his skin I can see from this position). She turns to me and winks and then, as a new band starts with some growling beat, pulls Shepard back into the chaos of writhing bodies. 

Simon returns to me and takes my hand. The look on his face, still red from his friend’s teasing (I assume), is almost shy, but then he lifts his eyebrows at me and, raising his voice over the music, shouts, “You wanna come back to mine? Penny’s spending the night at Shep’s, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.” I nod, probably a little too enthusiastically, and Simon grins. He keeps my hand securely in his warm grip and turns, towing me behind him as we thread our way through the crowds and then make our way out of the building and into the chill night air.

The walk to Simon’s flat is no longer on our return journey than it was on our trip here, but somehow it seems interminable. Simon holds my hand the whole way, and he keeps sending me these smiles that are both shy and wanting. I feel like I’m going to climb out of my skin. I don’t know how far Simon wants to go tonight, but I will willingly follow wherever he leads.

When we arrive at the flat, Simon’s demeanor is suddenly all shy. He stares about his living room helplessly, as if some object in the room might suddenly leap up and tell him what to do next. I get the feeling that Simon Snow is not particularly experienced in this, and his next words confirm it: running his hand through the hair at the back of his head, he admits shyly, “I haven’t really done this before.”

“Stood in a living room?” I question, arching one brow.

Simon laughs. “No, you prat! I’ve never really brought a bloke home before.” 

He’s 23, there’s no way he’s a virgin. Is he even gay? When I voice my thoughts out loud, he looks puzzled. “I dunno,” he shrugs. “I’ve only dated one other person, and that was a girl. I thought I was into her at the time, but now I’m not so sure? Because how I feel when I’m around you...well, it was nothing like that for me and Ags. You make me feel like there’s a constant itch under my skin and, when you touch me, I almost feel like I’m gonna explode. I-I-I w-want you to keep touching me forever. Does that mean I’m gay?”

I laugh incredulously, and my heart, which had sunk to my feet on first hearing that he’d only dated a woman before me, has leapt back to where it belongs, and is pounding away furiously. “If not gay, Snow, it sounds like you’re definitely interested in men.”

He shrugs again and grins at me, then looks away again, clearly nervous. “But I guess you can probably understand...I don’t really know where to go from here.”

I take pity on him. “Why don’t you show me your bedroom?” I suggest.

The apples of his cheeks bloom with colour, but he nods, eyes averted. He leads the way to his bedroom door and I trail after, struggling to find a way to get things back on track. It’s not a deal breaker by any means if we don’t have sex tonight, but I think he still wants to and just doesn’t know where to start.

As Simon comes even with his bed, he notices the package he left there at the beginning of the night, and his eyes light up. He lifts it up and turns to me, blue eyes eager once again. “I’d forgot about this! Can I open it now, Baz?”

My stomach sinks. I’ve been rethinking my gift all night. At this point, I’m certain that he’ll be put off by it, that he’ll see it as excessive display of wealth, as noblesse oblige. But I did tell him he could open it later, and if I put him off now, he’s not going to understand. Slowly, reluctantly, I nod. 

With a wide grin, he tears at the paper, shredding it in his haste to see what lies inside. When he sees the large, hinged wooden box, polished to a shine but clearly quite old, the smile drops from his face and he stares at it, perplexed. I suppose it resembles a large jewelry box or something. At the very least it doesn’t look like anything that young men look forward to receiving as gifts. His mouth moves for a moment and I suspect he’s searching for something polite to say about this odd gift. I fight past the tightness in my throat and say, “Look inside.”

In order to manipulate the ancient latch. Simon has to set the box gently on the bed. Once he fiddles with it for a minute, it gives, and he lifts the lid to reveal the blue velvet lined storage case for a very old tea service. The antique ceramic is without flaw. Its blue on white pattern depicts a sweet faced child holding a shepherd’s crook in one hand, while the other hand rests on the back of a gambolling goat. 

Simon stands, and stares into the box for so long that I start to panic. “It’s not as big a deal as you’re probably thinking, Simon. When you told me about the tea service Ebb had wanted, I thought I remembered seeing this packed away in our attic when I was a child. When I went home last weekend, I checked, and I was right. I asked Daphne if anyone cared if I took it, and I told her Ebb’s story. She was thrilled to offer it to such a good home. You don’t have to feel odd or beholden, I promise! Nobody had even looked at it in decades, and it will bring such happiness to your Ebb that I couldn’t resist…”

Simon suddenly bends down to the box. He relatches it carefully and picks it up, setting it on his desk and making sure it’s safely away from the edge before turning to me. His eyes look sort of wild and I wonder if I should apologise or make more excuses, but then he takes hold of my arm and twirls me around, so that my back is to his bed. “Baz?” he says.

“What?”

“Shut up,” and with that crude pronouncement, he shoves me backwards. I land flat on my back on his bed and stare up at him, stunned. He watches me for a moment more, looking strangely predatory, and then he puts one knee down onto the bed and swings his other leg over my hips, straddling me. Before I can even get excited about where this is potentially going, his lips are on mine and his body is pressed firmly over my own.

I gasp, and Simon takes advantage of my action to taste me, running his tongue along the inside of my lips. Then he pushes his face closer and tangles his tongue with mine and I feel my cock stiffening against my flies. Simon must feel it too, because he pulls away for a moment, staring at me in shock, his lips glistening with our combined saliva. 

While his focus is on my mouth, I slide my hands (formerly locked on his sides while he kissed me) down to cup his arse. His eyes flutter closed at feeling my hands on him there, and I take advantage of his inattention to tug him down hard against me, even as I arch my own hips off the bed. The choked off cry that escapes his lips is ample reward for my actions, but I have to let him decide if he really wants this, so I still, holding onto his backside, but no longer grinding against him. 

He looks at me; worry and lust are at war on his face, and I wait patiently to see what will win out. Finally, he clearly comes to a decision. His face hardens in determination and he reaches down to the hem of his ridiculous jumper (I can’t believe I’ve been snogging a man in a beer belly jumper) and pulls it over his head. 

I’m sure he must have been wearing some sort of shirt underneath it, but if so, he pulled both garments off at once, because I’m treated to a gorgeous expanse of freckles and moles, vivid against golden flesh. I immediately promise myself that I will find each and every little brown mark tonight and taste it. 

He’s not quite muscular, but the lines of his chest and shoulders are beautiful and I suddenly need to feel him against my skin. I also want to test his commitment to this moment between us, so I lift my arms to him, invitingly. His eyes widen and then I feel his hot hands against my stomach under my jumper and t-shirt (Thank all the gods I decided against a button-up tonight: I’m not patient enough to wait while Simon Snow fumbles his way through unbuttoning me). His hands stay there for a long moment, and I almost snipe at him to get on with disrobing me already, when I feel his thick, calloused fingers rubbing soothingly over my belly. 

It feels...it feels amazing and I collapse back against the bed and close my eyes to focus on the sensation. Simon lies down next to me on his side, though he keeps rubbing over my skin in a hypnotic pattern. Then, his lips brush mine again and I blindly turn my face towards him, parting my lips in offering. He takes my offer and my mouth and snogs me slowly and thoroughly as his hand on my skin works me into jelly and his free hand sifts through my hair.

After some interminable period of time, my need begins to rise, and I squirm under Snow’s fingers. His hand stills against my stomach, and I’m certain he’s going to continue with the ‘disrobing me’ bit. So I nearly jump out of my skin when his knuckles brush over the outline of my hard cock in my jeans. I stifle my cry, but can’t keep in a sharp gasp against his lips. He smiles at my reaction and resumes his rubbing, this time over my eager prick. He dives in and kisses me again, but my gasps and small cries keep breaking his momentum and he apparently decides on a different tack, because then he’s trailing kisses down under my jaw and across my neck. He takes my earlobe in his mouth and gives a sharp suck and I cry out. He lifts his head to grin at me smugly.

The growing confidence embodied in his smile is beautiful to behold, but I’m done being the passive partner. With a growl, I push him over onto his back and it’s my turn to straddle him. He stares up at me in surprise and the hunger in me roars at the feeling of being in a position of power over my lover. 

I’m done with this blasted jumper, so I peel it off and follow it with my long-sleeved t-shirt and now Snow and I are back on equal footing. Leaning forward, I hold myself up over him on my hands and knees and lean in to kiss and suck at his lips. Then I rear back and he follows my lips, desperately trying to keep in contact. I reward him by sinking down to rejoin our lips once again. I repeat this pattern over and over until he snarls in impatience and grabs my belt loops, pulling me down against his body. 

For the first time, my bare skin is pressed to his own and I gasp. He’s like a furnace, and can’t help the horrifyingly soppy thought that I’d like to warm myself at his fire for the rest of my life if he’ll let me. To distract myself, I skate my hands over his upper arms, and then cry out again as he sucks hard on the skin where my neck joins my shoulder. When he pulls back to inspect his work, I mutter shakily, “Now who’s a vampire?” and he just laughs and turns to sucking a matching mark onto the other side of my neck. 

Thwarted at my goal of touching and tasting all of his markings, I make do by tracing every inch of his back and shoulders with the fingertips of both hands. Finally I get to slip my fingers into his curls and tug his mouth back up to mine. When he relents and joins his mouth with mine again, I begin rolling my hips against him, over and over. He’s still at first, but soon, he’s rocking against me, as enthusiastic as I am.

Soon, he’s shuddering under me, releasing broken moans and whimpers against my throat (he’d given up snogging me after a minute or two of grinding when he could no longer resist crying out at the sensations being sparked in his groin). I pull back because, while grinding can be a fun activity all on its own, I have other plans for tonight that will be quite upset by Simon coming in his pants. 

**Simon**

Baz has been grinding against me for several minutes and just as I can feel that familiar coiling deep in my gut, he pulls back. He lifts his groin away from mine and sits back on his heels, gazing at me through eyes that are all pupil now. He licks his lip, and stares at me and I stare back. Whatever product he used in his dark hair is wearing off, because chunks of it are hanging in his face. 

With his inky hair and widows peak, and his lips bright red from my kisses, he does look more like a vampire than ever, but it’s dead sexy. His skin is perfect, smooth and white, (other than the two dark hickies I’ve left on him) (I’m quite proud of those) and he clearly works out because his pectoral muscles have definition and I even see a hint of abs under the taut skin of his stomach. I’d feel more self-conscious about being in worse shape than him if he weren’t staring at me like I was a 12 course buffet laid out just to sate his appetite. 

“Why’d you stop?” I ask, and wince at the way my voice comes out in a whine. Baz just smiles, though. 

“Patience, Snow. I don’t want this to be over too soon.” He licks his lips again and my cock jumps in my trousers. I fling my head back and groan, and he chuckles evilly. Then he leans over and begins to kiss my chest. It feels good, especially when his tongue slips out and draws tiny circles on my skin. It’s sensual, but not deeply arousing, and I feel my erection calm down a bit as he shifts around, kissing all over my chest, neck and arms. It’s when he spends extra time kissing and licking around one particular spot on my neck that I realise he’s been kissing my moles and somehow that thought makes me feel both embarrassed and adored. 

When he finally settles back on his heels and puts his hand on the button of my jeans, I’m more than ready to move on to bigger and better things. I’m not as hard as I was, but my dick is still eager, so when he quirks a brow at me in question, I nod enthusiastically. He smirks and pops the button, drawing down the zipper so slowly that I want to scream. My eyes squeeze shut at the barely there sensation, just over where I want it most. Finally, though, my pants are exposed to the dim lamplight of my bedroom. I keep my eyes tight shut, afraid to see his face, because I know my erect prick is clearly outlined in my pants.

He pauses then, and then I think I hear a stifled snicker. My eyes fly open in shock and outrage. He’s hovering over me, staring at my cock and stuffing his fist in his mouth to hold in laughter. “What the fuck?” I scowl. Having a potential lover laugh at the first sight of your dick in your boxers is not exactly encouraging. 

Baz isn’t discouraged by the outraged tone in my voice though. His eyes dancing with mirth, he gestures at my prick and squeezes out, between giggles, “Nice pants, Snow.”

I look down. Oh. Oh! Shit! I forgot I wore these today. Penny got them for me as a gag gift, and I wasn’t thinking that my night could end up like this when I put them on this morning.

They’re navy blue and look sedate enough on first glance, with what appears to be a white abstract pattern on them. Upon closer inspection, though, the white blotches become tiny reindeer. Each blotch in fact is two reindeer, one happily mounting the other. Both reindeer are horned, so I suppose they could represent two blokes...or do female reindeer have horns? I dunno. Anyways, I can feel my skin heating again, but I have to admit, it is funny and I begin laughing helplessly with Baz. 

He collapses onto the bed beside me and we both laugh until we’re wheezing. Then I turn my head to smile at him ruefully and he grins back, his eyes warm with affection. I feel something sweet and needy well up in my chest, so I turn to face him and reach out, cradling his face between my hands. His smile fades as he stares into my eyes, and when I reach over to kiss him, he opens to me like a flower and we trade lazy, tender kisses back and forth for several minutes. 

Eventually, kissing is no longer enough for me, so I reach down and, ungracefully, tug my jeans and pants down, and kick them off the bed onto the floor. Baz stares down at my newly revealed parts and I’m gratified by how his face flushes and his breathing becomes uneven. Before he can touch me though, I unceremoniously undo the button fly of his jeans, and tug them down his legs. For a brief moment, I admire his slim hips and powerful thighs, but then he wiggles out of his pants and suddenly, I’m looking at Baz’s cock.

It’s a very nice cock, I suppose. I haven’t much experience with any dick other than my own, but Baz has a nice one to my mind; pink and long, proportionate to his lanky frame. Seeing Baz naked has completely distracted me from my own self-consciousness at him seeing my prick. In fact, I’m so absorbed in looking at him that I start when his hand tentatively settles on my hip. 

“May I touch you, Snow?” he asks, running his tongue over his full lower lip. I want to shout ‘yes!’ immediately, but I hold myself back.

Instead, I say, “On one condition.”

“Oh?” he asks, raising that infernally sexy eyebrow at me again. I smirk at him and skim my own hand over his thigh. He closes his eyes at that and swallows noisily.

“What condition?” he finally manages, staring at me through slitted eyes. If he were a cat, he’d be purring right now. I keep rubbing over his hip and thigh as I lean forward until I know he can feel my breath on his mouth. 

“Call me Simon,’ I whisper, and then I take his mouth with my own and wrap my hand around his cock in nearly the same motion. He cries out against my mouth but then sinks into me, clutching at my shoulders desperately, even as he snogs me into the bed. 

When our lips finally slip apart, I lean back out of the reach of his mouth and, holding his prick in my hand loosely but doing nothing else with it, I say, “Well?”

“I...I can’t..” he breaks off into a startled groan when I grasp his cock firmly and slide my hand from the base to the tip, once. 

“You were saying? I tease, and he glares at me. Droplets of sweat are beading on his forehead, and he’s pulsing in my hand. 

“I don’t know if I can..” again, I stroke him, pausing at the top to smooth my thumb over and around his glans. Then, inspiration strikes, and I lean forward and wrap my lips around his tip and suckle gently.

“Fuck! Simon!” Baz cries out and I pull back long enough to smirk at him and comment:

“See, that wasn’t so...hard” and I follow my awful pun by wrapping my lips around him and sinking down his cock as far as I can manage without choking. His exasperated groan turns into a raptured sob as I begin to bob up and down on his cock like I was sucking an ice lolly. I finish each suck by laving his slit with my tongue and I think he likes it, if the way his hips are starting to bounce off the bed to meet me is any indication.

I’m starting to sense that he’s on the edge, and so I slowly pull off, replacing my mouth with my hand and stroking him gently. He opens his eyes dazedly to look at me and I’m gratified to notice that his long black lashes are damp and tear tracks run down the side of his face from the corner of his eyes. 

“Why’d you stop?” He whispers, hoarsely.

I stroke him for a few moments while I consider my answer. While jerking or sucking each other off would be a fine conclusion to a wonderful evening, I don’t think that’s what I want really. I want something more. I think I want to feel closer to Baz than I’ve ever felt to anyone.

He begins to squirm in slight discomfort and I realise that my spit has dried up and I’m rubbing his cock with no lubrication. I’ll give him a friction burn if I keep this up. I pull away abruptly and sit up on my knees on the bed. I’m slightly embarrassed at the way my hard cock bounces between my legs when I move, but not embarrassed enough to cover up. 

“Baz...I want something tonight, but...it may not be something you want, and I want you to know that’s Ok. The last thing I want to do is pressure you. I want to—”

“You want to have penetrative sex tonight?” he responds to my unspoken thought with a raised brow. “Snow, I’m pretty sure I’ve been giving you every indication of wanting you in any way I can have you tonight. I’m not sure why you’re worried about this.”

**Baz**

Simon flushes and looks away and I note idly how his reddened cheeks perfectly match the shade of his cock. I hope he can work through his shyness about sex; while I’d be overjoyed to come in any way he wants tonight, I have to admit to longing for the feel of being joined with him. 

I decide to do my best to put his mind at rest. “Snow...Simon. I’ve loved everything we’ve done tonight. And I will continue to love it if that’s the end of what we do. But if you want more, I’m completely delighted to oblige.”

“I-i-it’s j-just..I’ve never--” He struggles to explain and finally stops, looking at me helplessly. I take pity on him.

“You’ve never had sex with a man before, Snow? I had gathered that from what you said earlier. It’s not that different from sex with a woman. I can guide you through it, if that’s what you decide you want.”

“No, Baz…” He looks at me desperately and I’m shocked to see tears in his eyes. “You don’t understand. I’ve never...I’ve never had sex at all.”

It’s my turn to be stunned. “Not even with your girlfriend?” I blurt, and then wince. His sexual history is not my business and it’s not like me to be nosy about such things.

He doesn’t seem bothered, though, just shrugging. “She wasn’t really into it, and honestly, I’m not sure I was either.”

“Are you sure now, Snow? Simon?” I amend hastily, as he glares at me for using his surname once more. “It really is Ok if you’re not sure. I’m in this for as long as you’ll have me, and sex on the first date is definitely above and beyond what’s required of anyone.”

“It’s not that!” He groans in frustration, tugging on his curls with both hands. I want to pull his hands out of his hair and hold them in one of my own while I sooth his frazzled curls with my other. But ameliorating Simon’s distress comes first. I fold my hands in my lap, hiding my somewhat deflated cock so as to put less pressure on him. 

“What is it then, Simon?” I ask, patiently.

“It’s just...I have no idea what I’m doing and..and..I’m terrified I’m going to fuck this up. I don’t know how to make you feel good. I just...I don’t know how!” His last words come out in an anguished cry and I can’t help myself...I reach out to him and pull him into my arms, holding him and rocking him, running my hands over his back as he trembles. 

“Is there something I can do to calm your nerves, Simon?” I’m at a loss; he doesn’t want to stop, he wants sex, but he’s afraid of his own inexperience. Most people get through their first time relatively intact, but Simon’s anxiety over it is not usual, as far as I know.

He looks up at me, and my heart squeezes in my chest at the tear tracks on his face. Then he nods, and I smile. “What can I do then? I’ll do anything you need, Simon.”

“Can you...can you be the one to do it?” he whispers and then hides his face against my shoulder. 

I’m puzzled. “Do what, Simon?” He looks at me and bites his lip. 

“I..I want you to be the one…” At my mystified look, he chokes out, “to fuck me!”

My eyes widen and my jaw drops. I...I was not expecting that. I’d figured that Snow, being completely new to gay sex, would want to take the familiar role in the act. Though it sounds like neither role is actually familiar to him. I can feel my cheeks burning, but my prick is suddenly quite interested again. In fact, I’m straining against Simon’s belly and I know he can feel it. 

However, I’m guessing Simon has no idea about what goes into being the receptive partner in anal sex. That doesn’t mean I’m going to say no! I wouldn’t say no in a million years, actually. Well, he wanted me to help him; I guess we’re starting with some basics. 

I finally look Simon Snow in the eyes. His blue eyes are wistful and hopeful, and when I nod, they widen with delight. Then, I lean forward and whisper some rather detailed instructions in his ear. By the time I’m done, his cock is standing straight out from his belly again and his face is stained burgundy. His eyes, though, are sparkling. 

Without a word, he stands, and slips off to the restroom to follow my instructions. I lay back and stroke myself idly while I wait, careful not to give myself too much stimulation. I’m going to have to show some extreme self control tonight if I’m going to give Simon an unforgettable first time.

When Simon emerges, 30 minutes later, he’s fully nude with water beading over his skin where the towel he must have used hastily was inadequate to the job of drying him off. His erection has diminished in the course of his ministrations, but that’s fine. It will be great fun coaxing it back.

I haven’t been idle while he cleaned and prepared himself. Next to me on the bed is a clean, folded towel, a bottle of lube I unearthed from his bedside table, a pair of blue gloves I found in his broom cupboard with the cleaning supplies, and a condom. (The fit idiot didn’t have any. Luckily for the both of us, in my extremely hopeful preparation for the party, I’d slipped a few in my wallet.)

He stares at my supplies a little uneasily, but comes when I beckon him, and lays down on the bed, on his stomach at my direction. He manages only one protest, wondering “Baz, why the gloves? I mean...in movies I’ve seen, gloves were never used during sex…” I sigh, rolling my eyes (not for the first time) at how unrealistically gay sex is depicted in porn.

I don’t make fun of him for his ignorance though. That’s why we’re here, after all. I simply reply, “Nothing ruins the mood faster than getting your arsehole nicked by a stray fingernail, Snow. I mean Simon. The gloves are for you, to keep this safe and comfortable.”

Simon winces at my answer, and then nods, vigorously. “That makes sense,” he mumbles and then rests his face on his folded arms, looking my direction with serious eyes. “I trust you, Baz.”

Once again, this man is doing strange things to my heart. I close my eyes tightly for a moment, fighting back my lovesick grin, and then set to work. I glove up and use my gloved hands to part Simon’s arse. By the looks of things, he took my directions quite seriously; his hole is clean and pink and already looks a little loose. I’d suggested he try some gentle stretching with one finger. Now, I trace one finger over the outside of his opening, and his glutes tighten as he squeaks in surprise. “Are you ready, Simon?” I ask. He nods vigorously, watching me through slitted eyes, the flush on his face starting to creep down his shoulders. 

I lube up the gloved fingers of my left hand generously, and go back to massaging his hole. For a while, I stick to the external parts, until I can tell from his wriggling that he’s getting over-sensitive and impatient. Then I press my index finger into him, just up to the first joint. Simon squeeks again.

When I look at him to make sure he’s still alright, his eyes are glittering. “That feels...different.” He mutters. When I raise a questioning brow to him, he elaborates: “different from when I do it. ‘S good different, though. Don’t stop.” Then he closes his eyes and burrows his face into his folded arms. When I hesitate, he wiggles his butt at me and peeks one eye out to look at me impatiently. “I’ll tell you if I don’t like it, Baz, promise.” he mumbles and then turns his face away again.

Taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, I turn back and resume where I left off. For a while, I just move my one finger in gentle circles, coaxing him open without pushing any deeper. When the tensing and releasing of his arse grows more rhythmic, and his breathing begins to falter, I up the ante; I push the first finger in deeper, fully imbedding it into him. 

He stiffens at that, so I hold still until he slowly relaxes again. Then I resume wiggling and rotating my finger. Once he seems to accept that, I pump my finger in and out of him a few times and he arches his back and trembles at the sensation. He’s focused so hard on what my single finger is doing to him that, when I judge that I’ve done all I can with one finger, and so pull it out to prepare him for two, he turns and growls at me.

I chuckle, and soothe my un-lubed hand over his ass. Then I appease his unspoken demand and return to my work, but this time I push two fingers in, up to the first knuckle. As I repeat the press, rotate and stretch process with two fingers, and then with three, he’s growing increasingly agitated. Finally, he cries out in frustration. 

“Baz! Please! Fuck me!”

“Shhhhh” I murmur. Keeping two fingers embedded in his arse, I gently roll him over. HIs prick is rock hard and pre-come dribbles from the tip, but I know this next bit won’t be pleasant for him, so I want him as close as I can manage without actually tipping him over the edge. I resume pumping into him, and then I lean forward and take his cock into my mouth. He cries out and his hips jolt up, nearly strangling me, but I use my free hand to hold him down and spend a few minutes leisurely sucking and licking at him. When his hips are jerking continuously into my mouth, I pull off with a lewd pop and pull my fingers out of him at the same time. I discard the gloves into the wastebin by his bed. 

When he looks at me, misty eyed, I show him the condom and give him a questioning look. “Ready, Snow?” He nods vigorously. I grab the folded towel I obtained earlier and use it to prop up his hips to a slightly better angle. Then I rip open the condom packet and shakily roll it down my cock, then lube myself up carefully. Simon watches me, his eyes round with anticipation and some nerves.

I move into position, my cock bouncing obscenely between my legs. Simon tilts his hips up invitingly and looks into my eyes, biting his lip. I lean forward and take his poor, abused lip between both of my own, sucking on it until his mouth opens on a gasp and then entering him with my tongue, just as my body will soon do with his. I snog him for long enough that he begins thrusting against me, leaving a smear of fluid from his cock across my stomach, and then I sit back, carefully adjust myself and slowly push into him. 

As I had with my fingers, I enter him with my cock slowly and methodically. I push in a little, and then rock back and forth, letting him get used to that much before I push deeper. When I look at him, he’s staring at me, stunned, his mouth forming an “O”. When I finally bottom out, my bollocks resting against his arse, I look to see if he’s alright. His mouth is working, but for a long moment, no sound comes out. Finally he closes his eyes and exhales. “Fuuuuck, Baz.”

“Alright, Simon?” I ask, holding perfectly still.

He wiggles a little and then winces. “It’s...a lot,” he admits, but when I go to pull out, he grabs my arse with both hands and cries out, “No! Just...give me a minute.” I hold as still as I can, but this is agony. He’s so tight around me, and I’ve been hard for so fucking long by this point, I don’t know how much longer I can control myself. Simon is frowning in concentration though. Holding me still with his hands on my arse, he begins working his arse against my cock, rocking very slowly at first, and then faster and faster. 

Finally, he releases me, sliding his hands up to my lower back and murmurs, “Go on then Baz, ‘m ready.”

I’ve been going mad at feeling his arse squeeze and release my cock in tiny increments, over and over, so I admit that my first full thrust into him may have been overly enthusiastic. He cries out, and I freeze in fear, but he rocks up into me, saying, “No, ‘s good, keep going, keep going!” I don’t need more encouragement than that, and I begin rocking in and out of him, over and over, increasing the power of my strokes each time. He cries out with each thrust, and at first he just lets me move him with the power of my thrusts. Eventually, though, he begins to push back on me and it’s my turn to gasp as he drives himself back on my cock. 

I desperately want to get closer to him, so I shift one of his legs up over my hip and push in deeper and then capture his resulting groans in my mouth. I’m swiftly losing control, but I want him to remember this as more than just a random fuck, so I let myself snog him and rock into him as leisurely as I’m able. He sobs into my mouth, but meets my tongue eagerly with his own even as he pushes his arse up to sheathe my cock, over and over. 

Finally, I know I’m going to lose it, so I break away from his lips, rearing back so that I can take his cock in one hand and stroke it somewhat sloppily as I slam myself into him over and over. He’s releasing a steady stream of small cries, now and I can feel the pressure in my gut rising to a crescendo. With a strangled cry, I sink into him more deeply than ever before and release into the condom.

When my orgasm finally releases me from its grip, I realise that Simon is still rocking desperately against me, and I resume jerking his cock in my fist until he yells and spurts his semen all over my fist and his own stomach. I stay locked in place, buried deeply inside him until the tiny jerks of his hips in the throes of his orgasm trail off into panting exhaustion. Then I slowly pull out, wincing in sympathy at his tiny pained groan. 

“Are you alright, Simon?” I manage to ask through my own heavy breathing. Simon and I are both shiny with sweat and panting from exertion. 

“A little sore. ‘S to be expected, right?” he asks. 

“I think so,” I answer with a wry smile, “but I’ve never had sex with a virgin before, so I’m not certain.”

He finally opens his eyes a slit, and brilliant blue gleams out at me from between damp lashes. “It was incredible, Baz. You’re fucking brilliant at fucking.” I laugh; he’s clearly still a bit giddy from his climax. 

“Wait here, Snow,” I murmur, and head off to the loo to clean up, toss the condom and get some supplies. 

“It’s Simon!” he shouts after me, and I snort a laugh.

When I return, minutes later, Simon has pushed himself up on his elbows and is peering down at his come-spattered stomach with a grimace. I move to his side and, using the washcloth I’d procured in the loo, and dampened with warm water, I clean up the mess we both made, and then I fold up the towel I’d placed under him, and dry him with the clean side. 

At this point, I pause in indecision. I know what I want to happen next, but that depends on Simon, on what he wants. I stare awkwardly at the towel in my hand. 

My next move normally would be to give a few sincere (or insincere, depending on the situation) compliments to my date, and make my excuses. I’m not good at knowing how to be in that nebulous, early-relationship level of affection, so I generally avoid the whole situation by fucking off as soon as I’ve gotten off (as it were). I’m aware it’s maladaptive, and it often prevents even the notion of a second date, unless my lover is as emotionally constipated as I am.

But Simon...even if I actually wanted to leave him alone tonight, I already know him well enough to know that such an act would crush him. The problem with being a--well, a person like me, is that I’ve never learned how to take the next step. I’ve had relationships, but they’ve tended to be with men who were immune to my assholery. Simon, clearly, is not of that kind, just given the circumstance of our first meeting. It’s not fair of me to avoid the adult conversations. I’ve always known it’s not fair. I just didn’t care enough before.

Simon is now eying me in consternation, and I flush as I realise I’ve been staring at a semen soaked towel in introspection for an unnaturally long time. If I don’t speak soon, he’ll assume the worst and I can’t bear to hurt him.

“Simon,” I begin, and pause to stare at a mole on his knee that I hadn’t noticed before. (Note to self: need to lick that, soon). Then, I shake myself out of my own distraction and fight to get more words out, but they won’t fucking come. 

**Simon**

Baz is torturing his lip with his upper teeth, and his eyes are turned inward. It’s like he’s miles away. I’m trying not to assume anything, but he’s been silent and struggling for too long now, and my own insecurities are fighting to the surface: ‘ _he didn’t like it and is afraid to tell you_ ’ or ‘ _he was only interested in you for sex and now he’s trying to think of a way to let you off easy_ ’ are the top contenders for my mental breakdown tonight.

He starts to speak before I manage to work myself into a froth over what he’s thinking, but all he says is my name, and then freezes, staring towards my legs (or maybe off into space, I dunno). Then, he shakes his head abruptly, and his eyes grow alert again, but they look...anxious...helpless. I’d help him with just about anything if he could just tell me what it is he needs.

He seems to come to a decision, and throws the towel he’d been holding into my (overflowing) hamper and then returns to sit on the bed next to me. He lays his hand tentatively on my hip and I relax a bit. He still wants to touch me, that means he can’t be disgusted with me, right?

“Simon,” he begins again, “I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to be honest and tell you that I’ve slept with men before. A fair few in fact. But I’ve never done _this_ before and I’m terrified.”

I believe that he’s terrified. His face is chalky pale, and his lower lip is trembling, now that he’s no longer chewing on it. I immediately forget my own insecurities, because Baz should never be afraid, ever. I won’t allow it.

I sit up and turn to face him full on, taking both his hands in mine. “Baz, love. Whatever ‘this’ is, this thing you’re scared of. I promise it’ll be alright. You’ll be alright, Baz.”

He colours at my words and I’m distracted again by how astoundingly lovely he is with his depthless eyes and pink cheeks. I have to kiss him. I do. 

When I pull back, releasing his mouth reluctantly, he’s almost smiling again, and his eyes are sparkling. “What is it, Baz?” I ask. “You can tell me.”

He looks shyly at his hands, still clasped between mine, and seems to gather his courage. “Simon...I want this.”

“This?” I ask. Does he mean hand holding? Or kissing? Or more sex? (If he wants more sex, it’ll have to be a different way, my arsehole still stings.)

“I want...I want you Simon.” I glance down at his cock (no, it’s still soft, he must not be talking about sex then). He seems to divine the direction of my thoughts because he shakes his head. “No, Snow, not sex. I mean, _yes_ , sex, _later_ , when we’re both up to it. But not just sex. I want you next to me when I fall asleep tonight. I want you across from me when we eat breakfast tomorrow. I want to mock you for your lack of table manners and I want you to tease me for being a posh prat. I want to go on a second and third and fourth and four hundredth date. I want _you_ , Simon Snow. I want this.”

I stare at him, mouth hanging open like a numpty. Finally, I gather my scattered wits and ask him, “Are you asking to be my boyfriend?”

He laughs, shakily. “In an entirely too roundabout and pathetic way, yes. That’s what I’m asking. That’s what I want. What do _you_ want, Simon?”

I eye him thoughtfully for a moment, before speaking, slowly. “Agatha would probably tell you I’m a terrible boyfriend. I forget anniversaries, I spend too much time watching telly and not enough time reading books. I get crumbs in the bed sometimes. OK, Agatha wouldn’t know that last bit, but it’s only fair you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

He grins, and I can see him relax now that he knows I’m not exactly rejecting him. Good. I could never.

“I welcome it, Simon. All of it. So...what do you say?” Baz stares into my eyes and I can feel a fluttering in my gut that has nothing to do with what I last ate. _I want this._

“I say...yes. I want that. I want to be your terrible boyfriend. I want it more than anything. Just...promise me something, Baz.”

His colour has returned, and his smile is brilliant with happiness. “Anything, Simon.”

“Promise me that I’ll never have to sell you a fucking barbie, ever again.”


End file.
